


Draping

by rutobuka, yeaka



Series: Rutobuka's Wolf/Bunny AUs [6]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Fanart, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/pseuds/rutobuka, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Bilbo won’t let Thorin’s poor reaction to worse gifts ruin the holiday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written by yeaka for [Ugly Holiday Sweaters on Holiday Bingo](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/153917135000/my-holiday-themed-bingo-under-cut-you-can-make), inspired by and art by Rutobuka.
> 
> Disclaimer: We don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and we’re not making any money off this.

It’s his last day of freedom before another rotten conference with the questionable Men of Dale and the insufferable elves of Mirkwood, so the pie couldn’t have better timing. Thorin can smell it all the way down the hall and knows it must be coming from his private chambers—no one but his hubby-bunny cooks so well. He marches right past the guard outside his door, having already left his crown in the throne room, and walks into a thick cloud of roasted cherries.

He finds Bilbo in the dining area, already setting into a piece. He smiles sheepishly around his fork when he sees Thorin, and chews his food to finish, “Sorry, couldn’t wait.” His tan ears flatten back against his curly hair with the sentiment, but they perk up again as soon as Thorin’s come over to press a kiss down between them. Then he plops down right next to Bilbo and reaches for the pie sitting slightly off center on the table, only to realize there’s something else right in the middle.

“Balin brought it,” Bilbo tells him around another mouthful. He must not know any more—the package is still primly wrapped in forest-green fabric and berry-red twine. Thorin takes a suspicious whiff of it, but the only thing his trained wolf senses can pick up is the faint scent of pine. Bilbo shrugs to show his equal confusion and starts cutting out a slice of pie to put on Thorin’s plate. 

It isn’t likely to be anything dangerous—surely Balin would not accept a gift from an untrustworthy source—but Thorin still pushes the package far away from Bilbo before he opens it, just in case. He pulls the strings loose and lets the wrapping fall aside, then pushes the corners away. Bilbo’s ears perk up, betraying his curiosity. 

In the middle of the wrapping sits a thick mass of wool, dyed alternating green and red, with white trim and the most hideous rendition of an elk he’s ever seen emblazoned in the middle. At least, he thinks it’s an elk. If someone told him it was a troll’s backside, he wouldn’t entirely disbelieve them. Random objects are sewn in around it—what looks like one of those funny candy-canes the Men of Dale make, a clump of pointy leaves, off-colour squares with bows on them, and some bizarre looking black and white monster with stubby little round wings and a beak like a bird. 

Bilbo reaches over to tug out the piece of parchment wedged underneath it. Thorin’s still too horrified to do anything other than ogle the absurdity before him. Bilbo reads aloud: “To the King Under the Mountain—I offer you this gift as a token of friendship. It was painstakingly woven by our greatest tailors for your particular tastes in regards to your holiday season. I look forward to seeing you wear it at our upcoming conference as a show of your good will. Sincerely, The Elf King of the Woodland Realm.” Bilbo flips the parchment over afterwards as though expecting more, but there evidently is none.

Thorin is...

 _Livid._ He looks up at Bilbo in white-hot rage and can feel the fangs baring. Any amusement left on Bilbo’s face instantly dissipates, and his nose gives a sudden twitch like it does whenever he’s nervous. It manages to make Thorin back off enough to at least not flip the table over.

“He did this _on purpose_ ,” Thorin seethes, because he can tell Bilbo doesn’t see the problem. His fists thumb against the table anyway—a few half-broken cherries slip out of the pie into the empty triangle in the clear dish. “He intends to humiliate me!”

“No,” Bilbo counters. His benevolent nature does nothing to ease Thorin’s mood. Bilbo stretches across the table to pull the sweater closer, which drags the sleeves loose—they’ve got some thick, gaudy silver strings woven through them. Thorin’s never seen an uglier garment in his life.

He hisses, “I will _not_ wear this.”

Bilbo wrinkles his nose and says, “Thorin—”

“I’m not wearing it!”

“It’s a gift! You have to be diplomatic—”

“It’s an atrocity! I will not let that pointy-eared scoundrel make me look like a fool!”

To Thorin’s annoyance, Bilbo stops serving his pie in favour of glaring. “It’s a nice gesture.” It looks like he actually _believes_ that, which Thorin can’t fathom.

He bites back the growl growing in the back of his throat, because the last thing he wants to do is prove everyone right who said a wolf couldn’t control himself around a rabbit. But he _can_ and sits stiffly back down in his chair, icily gritting out, “Bilbo, you can’t possibly think _elves_ capable of such repulsive art as this without trying.”

Bilbo’s nose twitches again, but this time with a clear flicker of victory, and he says around a small smile, “So you admit elves are normally quite artistically talented, then?”

Thorin makes a spluttering noise and fumbles for some way to explain that he _absolutely did not mean that._ Bilbo just shakes his head and gets up from the table, pushing his own half-eaten pie slice away. He feigns a tired sigh and says, “ _Fine_. If you won’t wear it, I will, and you’re not to touch it.” He gives Thorin that _look_ that says, though he’s quite small compared to Thorin’s bulging muscles, that dissent will not be tolerated. Thorin grunts a noncommittal answer and stares as Bilbo’s fingers start working at the buttons of his waistcoat.

And the next thing Thorin knows, Bilbo is stripping right out of that waistcoat, pushing down his suspenders, and opening his shirt. Thorin’s thick tail instantly curls up in anticipation, ready to wag, but Bilbo doesn’t look over. He strips right down until he’s shirtless in the middle of the dining room, his flat chest, rosy nipples, and pudgy middle all out on display. Even incredibly confused, Thorin doesn’t say a word—he doesn’t want to do anything that’ll make Bilbo stop. 

But then Bilbo reaches across the table for the sweater, snatching it up before Thorin can react, and then Thorin’s gorgeously half-naked boyfriend is covering himself up in the most repugnant shirt ever made. Clearly made for Thorin’s size, it’s too big for Bilbo by far. He tugs it over his head anyway, ruffling his hair and flattening back his ears, and once it’s on, it slips lewdly down one shoulder. The hem covers his lap, which is highly unfortunate, because the next minute, he starts pushing down his trousers.

He steps out of them, all bare legs beneath the white hem, and Thorin’s not sure whether the fire in him is desire or fury.

Bilbo sticks out his little tongue. No doubt he thinks himself clever. He must know what effect his state-of-undress has on his boyfriend. He bends down to scoop up his discarded clothes, and just like that, turns off towards the bedroom.

His little white tail is still perked up. It keeps the back of the sweater from falling past his tailbone. Thus, not a stitch of his ass is covered, and Thorin’s forced to watch both round cheeks jiggle as Bilbo deliberately sways his way to the bedroom. Thorin has half a mind to just eat the pie and ignore both his stubborn lover and tomorrow’s conference.

But he’s not hungry for food anymore. And he can never resist his tiny hobbit in oversized clothing. Especially _his_ clothing, whether he wanted it to be his or not. Then it occurs to him that, if he doesn’t claim the sweater, Bilbo will technically be in nothing but _Thranduil’s_ clothes, and that’s just in no way acceptable. 

With an irritated grumble, Thorin abandons the pie in favour of following Bilbo’s footsteps. He finds Bilbo tucking his clothes back into a drawer in their shared bedroom, back to Thorin and perked tail still keeping his fat rump exposed. Thorin takes an extra second to stare at it, then growls, “Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t turn around, just mumbles, “Hm?”

Thorin takes a few measured steps closer. The faint woodsy smell of the sweater can’t hold up against Bilbo’s natural musk, and the more Thorin sucks it in, the more his hunger builds. He’s always loved Bilbo’s scent. Bilbo finishes tucking in the drawer and turns around to wag one finger and say, “No touching the sweater.”

Thorin says, “Fine,” and lunges forward, right at Bilbo’s legs. Bilbo makes an adorable ‘eeping’ noise and stumbles backwards, right onto his ass, but Thorin’s already bearing over him, and Bilbo’s forced to bend back to keep the sweater and Thorin’s chest from touching. Thorin’s own blue tunic brushes it, but he assumes that doesn’t count, because Bilbo doesn’t protest. He just looks up at Thorin with dilated eyes and his pheromones racing. Thorin dares to lean down for a fierce kiss, nipping at Bilbo’s bottom lip and slipping inside to suck in his tongue. Then Thorin pulls away again and crawls backwards, down Bilbo’s body, avoiding the entire midsection. At least the fall’s made the too-large sweater rise up around his middle; his crotch is entirely unprotected. Thorin hovers just over the semi-hard shaft of Bilbo’s cock and grins up to Bilbo’s face, promising, “I won’t touch it.”

Bilbo’s cheeks flush a sweet shade of pink, and he mumbles thickly, “Well, you can touch _that_...” Thorin thought so. He holds back his victory smirk to placate his bunny, and he leans down to swipe his broad tongue right from base to tip, nose rifling through the honey-coloured hair below Bilbo’s stomach. Bilbo makes a sharp, keen noise, hips bucking off the floor, and Thorin gives one thigh a light nip that earns him a delightful yelp.

Once he’s got Bilbo’s scent, he can’t let go of it. Thorin runs two more lengths of Bilbo’s cock with his tongue, pausing each time to swirl around the head crowning through the foreskin, and then he grasps it in his hand to hold it upright. Bilbo moans instantly and fidgets, but Thorin holds him down by either thigh and laves him in messy kisses. Bilbo coos happily and writhes in Thorin’s hands—he’s so _cute_ , even in the midst of _sex_. Fondness swells in Thorin’s chest, just as intense as the insistent throbbing in his cock. He grinds himself against the ground but mostly focuses on Bilbo’s pleasure: Thorin might be the king, but in their bedchambers, Bilbo is his _everything_.

And he shows that affection by parting his lips around the tip of Bilbo’s hard cock, then sliding down it in one smooth go. Bilbo absolutely shrieks, louder than any bunny should be able to, and strains in Thorin’s grasp, hips squirming uncontrollably beneath him. Thorin can’t help a satisfied smirk around his mouthful, his eyes bypassing the sweater to fix on Bilbo’s flushed face. He lets the engorged cock fill him, right to the back of his throat, and closes in on it to suck—Bilbo goes wild again. Thorin wriggles his tongue against the bottom and starts to slide off, only to slam right back to the root. He can already taste the precum on his tongue, and he eagerly swallows it down while he takes Bilbo in for more.

The argument almost forgotten, Thorin throws himself into this. He bobs up and down on Bilbo’s cock with full force, while his hands get greedy and start to explore, up Bilbo’s thighs to smooth across his stomach—then quickly retreating when his fingers graze wool. He sucks as hard as he can and luxuriates in Bilbo’s cries. The stench of Bilbo’s arousal is almost overwhelming. The slick squelching sounds go straight to his own cock. He can smell that Bilbo’s starting to sweat and loves that even more. He has half a mind to flip Bilbo over now and _fuck him right into the ground_.

But then Thorin would probably touch the sweater, and he gets a strange kick out of concentrating on _Bilbo’s_ pleasure, so does only this: gives Bilbo a blow job truly worthy of a king. Somewhere along the line, Bilbo’s hands thrust into Thorin’s hair, tiny fists giving him short tugs that only make him harder, and Thorin has to hope that the sleeves brushing his forehead don’t count. That’s Bilbo’s fault. Bilbo brushes sporadically through Thorin’s hair while Thorin sucks him off, until Bilbo’s incoherent cries twist into, “ _Ohhh_ , Thorin, I’m—!”

Thorin only uses the warning to slam down and stay there: he won’t risk a mess on the sweater. Besides, he loves the feeling when Bilbo finally bursts in his mouth, twitching wildly as one jet after another slides down his throat. Thorin swallows it all and suckles even after it’s ended, when Bilbo’s slumping down and panting for air.

Then Thorin slowly slides off, presses a chaste kiss to Bilbo’s thigh, and climbs over him on all fours. Bilbo looks dizzily up and mumbles, “Sweater—”

“I know,” Thorin mutters, voice just as raspy. For that, he doesn’t lean down in the warm embrace he wants. He keeps himself up on his hands and knees and just thrusts his hips into Bilbo’s. Bilbo bites his bottom lip and reaches down to unclasp Thorin’s belt. Bilbo pulls it right out, then opens Thorin’s trousers, pulls out Thorin’s hard cock, and tucks it between his own thighs. Thorin leans lower to help it work, to get more friction. Bilbo’s flagging cock presses into his stomach. He ruts in anyway, letting the sight of his beloved Bilbo be his aphrodisiac. Bilbo seems too spent to move, but that’s fine. His soft, warm body and beautiful face is enough. Bilbo clenches his thighs together to help, and Thorin groans and thrusts all the harder. He feels like an animal but doesn’t care. He just wants to mark Bilbo as _his_.

And he comes sooner than he’d like, because sucking Bilbo off got him going too much, and he just wants to see Bilbo’s thighs sticky with his cum. He growls out his orgasm and grinds down to keep his cock trapped where it is—the mess goes straight along Bilbo’s skin and down onto the floor. Even after there’s nothing left, Thorin gives a few more thrusts. Then he finally pulls up and rolls right onto the ground next to Bilbo, the two of them walled in between the bed and the drawers. 

They both lie there for a moment. They’re both still breathing hard. But then Bilbo starts squirming, and Thorin glances sideways to see him struggling out of the giant sweater. Thorin can’t help but mutter, “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“No,” Bilbo chirps, finally shrugging out of it—an impressive feat whilst still lying on the floor. “I think you proved my point.”

When Bilbo sits up, he starts in on the ties of Thorin’s tunic, and Thorin squints suspiciously at him and mutters, “Which is...?”

“That you love me more than you dislike elves,” Bilbo answers. Then he climbs unsteadily up to his feet, still completely naked, and reaches for Thorin’s hands. Thorin lets himself be pulled up to sitting.

Bilbo wrenches his tunic right over his head with one hard tug. Thorin looks at him like he’s gone mad, and Bilbo collects the sweater to bring over to Thorin, purring mischievously, “Which is why you’ll wear this tonight so you can get used to it. By the time tomorrow’s conference comes, I’m sure you’ll have so many fond memories of it that you won’t want to take it off.”

Thorin rolls his eyes but still lets Bilbo shove the ugly sweater onto him, because in the end, he would do anything for Bilbo.


End file.
